


We Happy Few

by frodogenic



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Band Of Brothers - Freeform, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pilots, Rogue Squadron, War, red badge of courage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 09:41:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10088051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frodogenic/pseuds/frodogenic
Summary: It isn't all medals and glory after the Battle of Yavin for the two survivors of Red Squadron. Wedge Antilles, meet Luke Skywalker.





	

> "This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.  
> He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,  
> Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,  
> And rouse him at the name of Crispian.  
> He that shall live this day, and see old age,  
> Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,  
> And say "To-morrow is Saint Crispian."  
> Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,  
> And say, "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."  
> Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,  
> But he'll remember, with advantages,  
> What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,  
> Familiar in his mouth as household words—  
> Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,  
> Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester—  
> Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.  
> This story shall the good man teach his son;  
> And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,  
> From this day to the ending of the world,  
> But we in it shall be rememberèd-  
>  **We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;**  
>  For he to-day that sheds his blood with me  
> Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,  
> This day shall gentle his condition;  
> And gentlemen in England now a-bed  
> Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,  
> And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks  
> That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."
> 
>   
> \- William Shakespeare,  _Henry V_

 

* * *

 

Dodonna had promised him that new recruits would be coming in a week, but that week stretched out ahead of Wedge Antilles as barren and interminable as the cavernous starfighter hangar that Red Squadron had once called home. The ceiling was too short for the length of the chamber and it felt heavy beyond bearing, especially hanging loose as it did over the empty starfighter berths.

Just a couple of days ago the whole place would have been swarming. Piggy and Biggs would have been right there laughing over a hand of sabacc, as always, and Hutch would be yelling at them to shut up because he couldn't read a damn thing over their racket, as always. The techs would be trotting by at intervals to fix some malfunctioning component or other, and Commander Dreis would be at his desk on the far end yelling at Hutch to stop yelling at Porkins so he could fill out the repair requisition forms in peace. Tyree'd be sitting on the nose of his fighter ripping open a ration bar, grinning when the rest of them prophesied that he wouldn't be able to stand the things once he actually tasted them.

Now it was just…silent. The techs were busy in the other hangars, the ones that still had ships and astromechs and pilots to use them. Wedge walked down the length of the hangar towards his starfighter, past berth after vacant berth, bare pavement circled with hoses and tool racks and charge stations, gaping at him like empty crypts. His footsteps cracked in the stillness like laser blasts. The air was hot and jungle-humid, but he felt marble-cold even in his insulated flightsuit. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked faster, staring at the floor determinedly.

"Hey, Wedge," a voice said out of nowhere.

Wedge jumped and whirled, breathing hard. He knew who it was—at least, he knew that there was only one other person who had any business being here now—but he hadn't expected the kid to be here.

Still, there he was, sitting on the stone and leaning against one of the landing struts of the starfighter he'd somehow managed to fly to victory two days ago. His knees were drawn up and he'd thrown his arms out balanced on top of them, twisting his fingers aimlessly.

"Sorry," he added, trying to smile. "Guess you didn't see me."

Wedge drove his heart rate back down by sheer force of will. "The hell're you doing here, Skywalker?"

He wished he could have taken the words back as soon as he said them—Skywalker was new, but like Commander Dreis always said, that didn't make him any less a member of the squad—what was left of it. But the newcomer just shrugged.

"I don't really have any place else to be," he said. "You?"

Wedge kicked the edge of a paving stone with the tip of his boot. "Same."

Skywalker nodded and pulled his hand back over his hair. It was dry. Unlike most people on this blasted jungle moon he wasn't sweating, and Wedge wondered why. Not that that was a real good conversation starter.

"Um…it's Luke, isn't it?"

He glanced back up with a more natural grin. "Yeah, it is. Luke Skywalker."

Something tugged at Wedge's memory. "I think I heard Darklighter mention you a few times."

The fragile grin collapsed. "We grew up together," he said hoarsely. "Used to fly Beggar's Canyon and dream about going to Academy."

"I remember he went to Academy," Wedge agreed uncomfortably. "Did you go with him?"

"Nah." Skywalker chucked a piece of stone away, staring at the far wall of the hangar. "Good thing, I guess," he added after a moment.

"I like him," Wedge said. "I mean—well, I liked him. Good pilot."

Skywalker nodded mutely.

"So're you."

He shrugged off the praise. "I'd be dead right now if Han hadn't come back when he did."

"I'm sorry," Wedge mumbled. "I should have—dammit, I—"

"There wasn't anything else you could do," Skywalker said, glancing up at him. "If you'd stayed back there you'd just have gotten vaped. I don't want any more people dead."

Wedge fell silent, staring back down the long, vacant hangar, and wished he'd just stayed in his bunkroom. Why'd he bothered coming down here? Did he think they'd be back?

"Don't why I came here," Skywalker said aloud. "Guess…guess I just hoped they'd be here somehow."

Wedge glared. "You didn't even know any of them," he snapped. The emptiness was making him edgy and the fact that Skywalker seemed capable of reading his thoughts didn't help matters.

"I meant my family," he said distantly. "They're dead too."

Wedge felt yet another spasm of guilt and kicked at the stones, wandering a couple steps closer by way of apology. "You make it sound like it wasn't long ago."

"Just a few days." Another chip of flagstone sailed away across the hangar, clattering over the ground and sliding to a stop against a length of coiled cable. "The Empire shot them."  _Ching._ "I wasn't at home."  _Thunk_.

A flash of ugly memory, full of screams and blossoms of fire, prompted Wedge to suddenly sit down on the pavement next to Skywalker. "Me too. Family, I mean. They're dead."

Skywalker glanced at him, and now that he was up close he could see the grief in the younger pilot's startling blue eyes. Grief, confusion, and a hell of a lot of guilt.

"There's a lot more people like us after what I did," the younger man muttered, turning back away.

"We all feel that way," Wedge told him. In his mind's eye he saw the Death Star going nova, again and again, blowing itself outward like the beginning of its own universe, a big bang of death, every glittering fragment sharp as the cry of a new widow. Then he remembered that Alderaan must have looked just like it, only worse, and his eyes wandered around the morgue of a hangar they sat in.

Skywalker blew out a deep breath. "Dunno if I can keep doing it."

Tyree had said the very same thing not long ago, after a raid for supplies. "The trick is remembering it's bigger than us. Bigger than them. We give up a damn lot for that."

Skywalker tilted a wry eyebrow at him. "Peace of mind included?"

"You did the right thing," Wedge told him firmly. "And nine hells, come on! You hadn't been there to pull that off, we'd  _all_  be vapor, right, and  _then_  who's gonna rescue the galaxy?"

Skywalker managed another halfhearted grin. "Just wish I'd been a little faster about it. Then maybe this wouldn't suck so much." He waved a hand at the deathly stillness of the hangar.

Wedge glanced towards the place where Biggs and Piggy would have been playing sabacc. Probably he would have joined them by now. "Yeah."  _Shavit, Darklighter, you owed me three hundred credits._ Not that he needed to worry about paying Hutch back anymore.

He shoved the thoughts to the back of his mind. "I talked to Dodonna. There's new recruits coming in a week and I think a bunch of new defectors. Alderaan's making a lot of people think twice about the Empire. We'll have a squad again soon."

Skywalker nodded, still staring into the distance. "But they won't know what this week has been like, will they?"

His stomach felt like a space vacuum. "They won't know. Just us two." He grinned suddenly. "We'll have to show 'em the ropes. Skywalker and Antilles, the rogue survivors. We'll make rogues out of 'em all."

Luke laughed. "Rogues is right." He turned back. "I don't exactly  _know_  the ropes myself, you know."

"We got a week to get you up to speed," Wedge shrugged. "I can run you through the battle books, tell you the old stories. Shavit," he whispered, eyes on the empty spaces, "we had such good stories…."

 

* * *

 

FINIS


End file.
